Prayers and Sirens
by Skalidra
Summary: Jason Todd is a priest at one of the larger churches in Old Gotham, given a second chance at life by miracles he can't understand and can only hope to someday repay. Dick Grayson is a cop from Bludhaven, recently transferred to Gotham and looking to clean up the city. A chance meeting connects them as allies, but Jason knows more than he'll tell about Gotham's dark secrets.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome! So this is something I wrote the first couple chapters of a while back, and it just kept getting pushed farther back as I wrote more things. This entire story was based off the fact that I wanted Officer Dick Grayson and Father Jason Todd to exist in the same universe (which they don't, but whatever), and it didn't exist. So I wrote it. This is mostly set up, but I do know where this eventually goes. Promise. XD Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for: References to (temporary) character death and implied past dubious consent.

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The shattering of glass is about as familiar as it should be — this _is_ Gotham, after all — and instinct has me shifting half behind the wood of the open door to my kitchen before I can truly think about why. A lifetime on Gotham's streets, in its gangs, taught me that shattering glass is very rarely a good noise. Especially when it comes in an otherwise empty building that just happens to be your home. I peer around the edge of the door in time to see three shadowed figures climb in through my broken window, one flattening himself against the ground and the other two against the walls on either side.

The flash of red and blue lights slicing in just a few seconds behind them is more cause for a sigh than any kind of worry. This isn't the worst parts of Gotham, and three people getting tracked down by actual cops is not my idea of a threat. I've seen a lot worse than that.

"Stay down!" one of them hisses at the one on the floor, and I shake my head.

This is _Gotham_ , and these three clearly haven't had much experience with the cops if they think that a police car tracking them down isn't going to notice a broken window in the route. I could probably teach them more about evading cops than they actually know. I don't blame them for thinking my house was empty — I don't own a car, and when it's this late I usually don't bother turning lights on when I get home — but it's still pretty sad.

I step out into the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest and squinting my eyes a bit at the drag of red light over my face. "What did you do?" I ask the three of them, using just a touch of the intimidating, rougher voice that's pretty much natural to anyone raised in the lower streets of Gotham. I got rid of most of it years ago, smoothed it out after my second chance at life, but I can still call it up when I need it.

The three of them jerk, and they're all wearing all-black clothing, including sweatshirts with hoods pulled up over their heads. This was something planned, apparently, not just a misunderstanding or some kind of accidental mishap. No one in Gotham is dumb enough to wear clothing that suspicious looking if their intentions are innocent; you'll get the wrong kind of attention from cops _and_ anyone involved with the gangs. That's not even mentioning Gotham's very own angel of death, the Batman.

I can't totally condemn Batman for what he does. It's… I can't say necessary, I don't think I can believe that killing is ever the best option, but maybe, sometimes, some people can see it as the only one. Sometimes, death can be a good thing.

It's what gave me my second chance.

"You better stay out of this!" the one to the left of the window — his skin doesn't stand out like the other two; black? — snaps, but there's no weapon in his hand and I am nearly sure I can handle three attackers. Just because I don't use what I learned in Brother Blood's gang anymore doesn't mean that I've forgotten it all.

"You smashed into _my_ home," I point out, "I think I'm involved. Relax, I'm not going to go calling for the cop outside." Even though the lights haven't stopped flashing, and if they weren't new at this they would realize that means that the cop isn't still searching, and did in fact see the window. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes until he's either following them through it, or coming around to the door.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that's his shadow edging across the street towards us.

"So," I continue, idly watching what has to be the cop's shadow, backlit by his car's lights, "why don't you all pull your hoods back, sit down, and tell me what happened?"

"We shattered your window, why are you being nice?" the one on the floor says, speaking for the first time, and I offer a small smile. More flies with honey than vinegar.

"It's my job," I uncross my arms and gesture at myself, "priest. The window can be fixed." I'm actually still in my robes, too. The church stays open twenty-four hours a day — most of those in need of shelter in Gotham need it at night, not the day — and I usually volunteer for the night shifts. I haven't been home more than about an hour, and this is actually an early night for me, it's barely four AM. I'm more comfortable sleeping in the day, and the night feels more familiar after the years of gang work. Not even the priests that took me in after I died ever changed that ingrained habit; I spent a lot more time wandering the church's halls after hours than I ever did sleeping.

The one to the right of the window flinches, head snapping sideways towards the one pressed against the opposite side. "You took us into a _priest's_ home? You jackass!"

"I didn't know!" he says defensively, and the cop's shadow reaches my window and ducks back behind its edge.

"It's alright," I say, making my voice just a touch louder. "But next time please, just use the front door. I leave it unlocked if I'm not asleep for anyone that feels more comfortable talking outside of a church." Which is absolutely true, but that doesn't mean that it wasn't also intended to let the cop know that my front door is a better way into my house. By the flash of a thumbs up through the empty space, and the lack of a gun or him jumping immediately through the window, he understands.

"Isn't that dangerous?" the one on the floor says, and I give another small smile.

"I have nothing to steal," I tell him plainly. "Please, come sit down in the kitchen. I can offer you water, I think I might have some orange juice too." They hesitate, but then the black one nods and moves away from the window. He's skirting the edges of the light, and I step forward and away to clear the doorway so he can move through. He skirts me too, obviously wary, but his acceptance of my offer seems to click the other two into moving as well. They're less paranoid about the light, just heading around my couch and right to the door, following their friend. After the one rolls up off the floor.

Obviously they're friends. Gang members aren't this naive about police behaviour, and this looks a lot more like three friends on their first robbery than it does any kind of coordinated movement. I _know_ what that looks like, and this definitely isn't it.

I follow them into the kitchen, flicking on the not quite as intense light that comes on over the stove before I head for the fridge. The one on the floor is the first to pull his hood back, haltingly, as I crouch in front of the open fridge. I look back over at the three of them — they barely look more than fourteen or fifteen, the oldest maybe seventeen — and offer them my patented 'Father' smile, the patient one I totally copied off the older priests.

"Sit, please. What would you like to drink?" They do take seats — two at the table and the older white one, the one against the wall, on my counter — but apart from trading wary glances none of them answer my question. "Water?" I offer, and when none of them answer me, still, I shrug and reach in to grab three bottles out of the fridge. They can drink it or not, as they want. I straighten up and nudge the fridge door closed with my free hand before turning, passing out the water — which all of them do take — before leaning back against the counter facing them. It also puts me conveniently across from the open door and keeps their eyes turned away from it.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" I say with another smile, bracing my hands against the counter behind me.

They share more glances as I wait — considering the time it will take to loop around my house at the cautiously slow speed of a decent cop — and then the younger white one, the one from the floor, bursts out with, "It was Rick's fault."

"It was an _accident_ ," the older white one, Rick I guess, immediately snaps, arms crossing over his chest.

"Easy," I intercede, as they glare at each other and the black teenager just looks uncomfortable and guilty. "Sometimes things just happen."

"What the fuck would you know?" Rick spits at me, and I definitely recognize his anger as the 'scared out of my mind' variety. Whatever the three of them did, it wasn't intentional. That's good. I've seen kids their age do a lot of terrible things, but most of the time the terrible things aren't something they planned and meant to do.

"I grew up in Crime Alley, do you think I was born a priest?" The mention of my birthplace makes the black kid wince, the younger white one recoil in his chair, and Rick's hands clench down on his arms. Yeah, that's about the reaction it _should_ get. "I understand how hard things can get sometimes, and I know more than you think. You can tell me; I won't judge."

Well, I'll judge silently, and probably not them. If I judge anyone it will be the laws and social fuckups that make these kind of situations in the first place. People don't steal just for the kick of it, most of the time. To them it's necessary for one reason or another, especially when it's kids like this. I knew dozens of teenagers that got involved in all the wrong things for all the right reasons; I was one of them. Sometimes the only reason you need to steal is that you're hungry, or someone you know is hungry, sick, or addicted to something. Gotham's support system is nonexistent for anyone in the lower classes.

I do what I can to be part of one of the few places people like them can get help, but it's not enough. I _know_ it isn't enough.

"It wasn't us," the black kid says, and there's something like pleading in his voice. "The guy who runs our neighborhood, he burns down people's buildings if they don't give him the money he wants. Our building was just a little short, we just needed a _little_."

Oh _hell_. So this is going to be one of those kind of stories. "What went wrong?" I ask. There's no point trying to make them feel guilty, they're _already_ guilty. They knew what they were doing was wrong, but as far as they were concerned there was no choice. They might even have been right. I can't condemn any of them for that.

"I took my dad's gun," Rick admits, and I fight back the urge to take in a sharp breath. "That cop showed up, I took a shot to get him off of us." Oh, _tell_ me these three didn't shoot a cop. Gotham's police department gets _nasty_ when people hurt one of their own, kids or not. There's nothing I can do for them if that's what happened.

"Did you hit him?" I ask, and Rick shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. "Then what?" Out of the corner of my peripheral vision I see the door to my house open slowly, silently. The white of the cop's uniform stands out in the darkness, and the way he moves as he slips inside, his stance, says he has a gun in his hands.

"A woman across the street," the younger white kid says quietly, hands tight around the unopened water bottle.

' _Christ_ ,' sits on the edge of my tongue, but out of respect for the men who gave me a home — more than fear of reprisal from the God who brought me back from the grave — I bite it back. "Is she alright?" is what I ask instead, not tightening my grip any further on the counter behind me. The cop reaches the doorway, pressed behind one side, and I tilt my head to point a bit more obviously in the direction the kids are sitting.

"Dunno," the black kid says. "We ran."

The cop spins around the edge of the doorway, gun coming up to aim unerringly near the middle of the group of three kids. They flinch and jerk away, the younger white kid's chair clattering to the floor as he staggers to his feet. "She'll be _fine_ ," the cop says, in a voice lighter than mine and pretty young sounding. In fact, he _looks_ pretty young. "Now how about you _real_ slowly pull that gun out of wherever you stashed it and hand it over, kid?"

I take the opportunity, as Rick fumbles to obey, to take a look at this cop. I don't recognize him, which is a bit weird. Over the years I've memorized the face of, met once or twice, or personally known, pretty much every cop in the Gotham police department. Some from my past, some from knowing who the corrupted cops are that you can bribe to look the other way, and some because they come into the church at all hours. Some are even there to actually pray.

Normally, when I don't know a cop, I call that they're a rookie. But they don't let rookies go out on patrols alone, or use cars, and there's not a partner to be seen anywhere. Interesting; wonder what his story is?

He's good looking — not too common in the GCPD — with the winning combo, I'd know, of ear-length black hair and bright blue eyes. His are actually a lot lighter and clearer than mine, I didn't know eyes came that shade in real life. He's dressed cleanly, uniform nearly pristine, and he's long and lean. There's another rarity in the GCPD; usually the pretty boys get laughed out of town. Wonder if he's gay, or just still trying to prove that he's up to the task of a job in Gotham? Pretty much no other cop looks this well put together. Even the gay ones — not that many of those last long either — usually let their appearances slip after a bit.

"You sold us out?!" the younger white kid hisses at me, eyes wide in what nearly looks like betrayal.

I open my mouth to speak, but the cop gets there before I can. "No, kid, I saw the shattered window. You three weren't too subtle." Rick slides off the counter and crouches down to send the gun spinning across the linoleum, the cop catches it under his foot. "Appreciated. Priest, you know how to use handcuffs?"

Every inch of the arrogant teenage criminal left in me bursts into laughter — emphatic _yes_ , in more ways than one — but I only give a small smile instead. "Yes, officer." He really doesn't need to know how fast I can pick a pair of handcuffs, or how many people I've put in them, or… well, _other_ uses I know.

"Would you mind?" he asks, taking one hand off his gun to reach down towards his belt and fish out three compacted pairs of professional grade handcuffs — I know the difference — that fall open as he holds them up. Any real gang member would take that as a sign to attack him — with his other hand off the gun, and not bracing it against the recoil, he'll get just one shot off in time — but the kids just stare, still looking pretty much shellshocked.

"No problem," I answer easily, letting go of the counter and stepping forward to take the handcuffs from him. He doesn't look at me, now free hand falling back to his gun. It's a good grip, he clearly knows how to use it. More importantly, he's confident. Transfer from another city maybe?

Oh, if that's the case, poor man. Getting reassigned to Gotham is _not_ a promotion, it's definitely a punishment. This is _not_ an easy city to be any kind of law enforcement in; unless you're corrupt of course. Then it's _real_ easy. This one doesn't immediately strike me as corrupt — and as a Gotham kid, I know the feel of a corrupt cop — but that doesn't mean he isn't one. Some of them are really good at hiding it right up until they want payment from you. That might be some of my experience with handcuffs; did a lot of things I wasn't proud of to stay out of a jail cell.

I head around the other side of the table, keeping out of the line of the cop's gun, and the kids are all flicking their gazes between me and him. The black kid is closest, and I hold up one of the pairs of handcuffs while I arch an eyebrow. He hesitates, swallows, but then nods and stands from his chair. He holds both hands out to me, and with an old familiarity I click one cuff around his left wrist and ratchet it closed, swinging him till his back is to me and I can catch the other wrist and bring it to the small of his back. The click of the metal as it shuts, and I close both cuffs to be snug but not biting — I know that distinction a little too well — is almost nostalgic.

I turn him back around and give him a small, comforting smile — yeah, stole that one off the older priests too — before I guide him back against my counter and out of my way to the other two. 'Nice' was never my default expression or mood, so I pretty much just copied all the smiles and gentle demeanors of the priests that saved me and turned them into my own. I was good at intimidation and being a mean little bastard before that, not so much the whole being kind thing.

Rick steps forward before I can ask, holding out just his left wrist. He looks really guilty, and miserable, but I resist the urge to start one of my 'tell me what troubles you' speeches. _So_ not the time, and I really don't need to start a speech at one of three troubled kids in my kitchen while the cop across the room is waiting for me to handcuff two of them. Maybe later I'll stop by the precinct and see if I can do the 'man of God' cheat to get in and talk to them. Make sure none of the cops are hurting them — unfortunately, that's way too likely a possibility if _this_ cop puts into his report that they took a shot at him — and see if any of them need a friend.

I cuff Rick as efficiently as the black kid, giving a nod of thanks to him and guiding him over with the other one before I approach the younger white kid. He looks a little more skittish, and he's backed up against the counter, but after a moment he shudders a little bit and turns away from me, hands coming to the small of his back. I offer him a gentle clasp of my hand on his shoulder before cuffing him, and he seems to appreciate it. At the least he relaxes just a little bit.

The cop holsters his gun as I move the younger kid to stand with his friends, and then pulls an evidence bag out of another one of the pouches on his belt and leans down to collect the gun under his foot with it. He's efficient, doesn't touch the metal with anything but plastic, and seals it up just as easily.

"Alright," he says as he straightens back up with the bag in one hand, focusing on the three kids and bracing his other hand on his hip. "So I'm going to escort you out to my car, and if one of you runs I'm going to shoot him. Leg wound, so it'll cripple you and bleed a lot but you'll be just fine longterm. Got it?" I resist the urge to smirk; it's really not appropriate as a priest.

Props to the cop for being straight up with the kids. If it's just this one cop then there's not much else he's going to be able to do if one of them runs. He can't leave behind the other two to chase one, so his options are really just take the runner down hard and fast. Most cops aren't that up front about what they'll do to you if you make their job harder than it needs to be, even though most Gotham kids know the rules anyway.

The kids mostly just look miserable and a bit terrified, but there's a nod or two, and the cop gives a nod of satisfaction and ushers them out of the kitchen. "Come on, kids, might be a bit cramped in the back but it's not that long a ride." He's good natured too. Wonder how long that'll last now that he's in Gotham?

"I'll walk you out," I offer to the kids, glancing at the cop and seeing the tiny flash of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I put my hand on the back of the younger white kid's shoulder — he's obviously the one who needs the support the most — and give a reassuring smile to the other two, tilting my head the direction of the door. They hesitate, but again the black kid takes the lead and heads slowly towards the exit of the kitchen.

The cop backs out of the kitchen and steps aside to be out of the way, then falls in beside the black kid to guide him across my living room to my still slightly open front door. The walk to the car is totally without incident, and the cop makes sure all three are safely inside the backseat — all limbs included, and not all cops are that nice — before shutting the door. He turns to me, and offers me the hand not holding the evidence bag.

"Officer Grayson," he says, with a bright flash of white teeth and the lights from the car painting his face almost the same shade as his eyes. I shake his hand; why not? The guy seems decent enough for now.

"Father Todd," I answer, appreciating the strength in his grip. Most people don't treat me gently — even under the robes it's hard to miss that I'm a pretty built guy — but most have a lot of the 'don't offend the hand of God' kind of things going on, and don't want to be anything but distanced and respectful. "I don't recognize you; new to Gotham?"

"Know all the people who work in the GCPD, do you?" he says, with a grin that feels cheerful and almost teasing, and my smile might be a little more knowing and smirk-ish than it should be.

"Most of them, one way or another."

He looks a little taken aback, but the release of my hand feels natural and not like a recoiling. "Oh, well yeah. I was next door, Bludhaven. I requested the transfer over here." Well, that makes _no_ sense. No one _wants_ to be in Gotham except a few of the high and mighty millionaires that wander through, and they never actually step onto a street. No one wants to _work_ in Gotham. "Are you really a priest? You seem kinda young."

"You seem young to be a cop," I counter, and he gives another one of those grins. This one looks a little more bashful. He really doesn't look like more than about twenty-five; cops don't normally get their squad cars that young, or do patrols without a partner. Especially in Gotham. "I'm part of the big church down in Old Gotham, they took me in off the streets a while back." That is the _shortest_ version of the story, but it works for telling strangers. "Stop by some time if you're interested."

There, attempted conversion done for the night.

He shakes his head and gives a rueful little smile. "I work most days, sorry. This is just an extra shift I'm covering, and I'm not big on religion anyway."

I shrug and keep the smile on my face. "It never has to be about the spirituality; the church is just a haven for the people who need it." That actually seems to interest him a little bit. "The doors are always open, and I work most nights. If you change your mind."

"I'll think about it," he sort of promises, but I've had a lot of experience convincing people of things. He looks interested, so he'll stop by. "Got my shift to finish, and the kids to drop off. Nice to meet you, Father."

"Hey," I say, as he starts to turn away. "Do me a favor?" He arches an eyebrow, but doesn't totally dismiss or ignore me. In fact he gives a small nod after looking at me for a second. "Don't mention that the kid took a shot at you. Tell them he was waving it around and it went off, or something."

The look he gives me is more confusion than anything else. "You want me to lie in a report?" he asks, like the idea itself doesn't make sense to him. "Why?"

"You really _are_ new to Gotham, aren't you?" I say with a small snort. "If word gets out those kids took a shot at a cop, even if it was total panic and they missed, they might not even make it to a hearing. At best, all they get is roughed up to teach them a lesson. They're just kids trying to keep their heads above water; they don't deserve to get hurt for a mistake."

He winces, and his free hand comes up to swipe over his eyes. "You know, it sucks that you're right." He drops his hand and shakes his head, giving a smile that's not as bright as his previous ones and meeting my gaze again. "Alright, no problem. I'll keep it out of any of the reports, and make sure they don't say anything dumb. See you around, Todd."

"See you around, Grayson." The smile he flashes at me as he gets in his car is bright again, and when he pulls away from the curb I let out the breath in my lungs and turn back to my house.

Alright, so Grayson is actually a decent cop for now. I wouldn't bet on Gotham letting him stay that way, but we'll see. He knows what he's doing, must have been decorated or at least respected to actually get a transfer over _here_ approved, and he's gotta be talented too to have a decent amount of responsibility at his age, or just look young for whatever age he actually is. Maybe I should ask Gordon about him, next time I see the commissioner. That guy could use a few more allies in the department, and if Grayson's actually decent he could definitely use some help not getting thrown out of town in return.

And he's attractive. Well, there goes not thinking about _that_.

Ah well, I've thought about a lot worse before, and it's not like that's ever actually gonna happen. People get finicky about having sex with priests, and besides, I'd have to have the unbelievable luck for Grayson to have any interest in guys. All of my luck pretty much got used up on my miracle resurrection, and God's never been real big on handing out favors to the not-so-straight. The other priests, my real fathers, might be pretty alright with it most of the time — _Gotham_ ; we've seen a lot weirder and more disturbing shit than one person loving another with the same set of genitals — but you still get the weird side-eyes from some of them.

It's not like I'm the model people should try and be, and none of the priests actually believed that I was ever going to be a full on priest like them — vows of chastity and poverty are just _not_ my thing — but I try not to out and out flaunt the rules if I can help it. I have sex, sometimes, no one's ever going to convince me to give up smoking, and yeah, I like guys most of the time. Anybody willing to condemn me for that is _so_ not worth my time, but I get that the priests still have a few hangups and none are all that pleased that I've got a decent sex life outside of marriage or a committed partner. I learned not to talk about it unless I needed to, and I also learned exactly which of my fathers will actually talk to me and which will just stare at me disapprovingly without saying anything but faintly judgy quotes from the bible.

Didn't need more than a few of those lectures, thanks.

You can take the boy out of the street, but you can't take the street out of the boy. I'm _never_ going to be the kind of pious that they are, and I'm never going to believe the way that they do either. Yes, I'm fairly sure God exists, but I don't think he's the benevolent ruler people like to think of him as. If he was that kind I would have come back to life on the surface, not buried six feet down in a coffin. I also don't think the bible should be taken literally, or that all of it makes sense anymore. It's been a long time since it was written; times have changed. It's the _spirit_ of the religion that should be followed, not the text.

Besides, I gave up on the idea of getting to whatever heaven there is a long time ago. I've done too much and hurt too many people to really have a shot at it, and a few small sins that don't hurt anyone but me aren't going to make the difference. If you even think of them as sins.

I shut my front door, flicking on my light and taking a look at the glass scattered over the floor of my living room. I brace my hands on my hips for a second before sighing. Not much choice but to clean it up now, I suppose. Not in the robes though; I could use clothes a little less tight against the throat. They're not _uncomfortable_ , I've just been wearing them for a while and if I'm going to do anything physical I'd rather wear something else.

I head around the edge of my living room, avoiding the glass — if it gets in my boots I'm going to track it all over my house, and I don't want glass all over the place — and to the door to my bedroom on the right wall, midway between the front door and the one to the kitchen. It's the only door in my house I keep closed, and that's just because I get people at weird hours a lot of the time. Maybe the rest of my house needs to be clean, but I can slack a little when it comes to my bedroom if I just keep the door closed.

I push it open and raise my hands up to the collar of my cassock. The buttons are a long, ridiculous process as always, but practice makes the thirty-three of them easier to do, and it's not long before I'm shrugging out of the robe. I should probably give it a little more respect than tossing it over the foot of my bed like I do, but ah well. The symbol it represents is important, but it's just a piece of clothing at the end of the day. Or night. There's no inherent power in it.

I roll up the sleeves of my white, collared shirt and undo the top few buttons to pull it away from my neck. Alright, time to deal with the glass.

It takes a while to sweep up the majority of the remains of the window, vacuum away the rest — four passes; I like being barefoot when I can — and then find a piece of cloth I'm not using to pin up over the window. Bad idea to leave it open, even if this neighborhood is generally all aware that I'm a priest and I really don't have anything worth stealing. The church pays the rent, and the cost of my living expenses, and what little I actually make or get given usually goes into savings or to buy things that the church won't cover. Condoms, cigarettes, etcetera.

I'll get the window fixed before too long, but until then the cloth will do well enough at looking like a curtain or something. At the least it'll keep out the bugs and the cold air, more or less. Good enough.

My light flicks off, and I probably _should_ flinch but instead I just bite back a sigh and shove in the last pushpin to hold up the top corner before I turn around. The hulking figure in the corner of my living room isn't particularly welcome, but he's not unfamiliar. The red eyes of his mask are the only part that stands out, and it makes my flesh crawl a bit in some instinct that hisses ' _demon; monster_ ,' but I push the feeling away.

"Batman." As my eyes adjust to the darkness I can see his mouth curve in something like a sneer. The angle of his jaw has the same stubble on it as usual, and I know if I get closer I'll be able to smell the mix of metal, smoke, and alcohol on him. If I were actually pious maybe I'd try and help him, but I haven't totally forgiven him and I don't know if I ever will.

"Todd," he growls back. "Saw the window. Got anything for me?"

"Heard about the guy in Old Gotham who's been burning down buildings?" I ask, and his head tilts down in a nod. "There're three kids getting processed down at the GCPD who live in the next building he's got his sights on. Don't know which it is, but apparently he's been blackmailing the residents to pay him protection money." My stomach clenches a bit at the words, but I push through it and hold the demon-red burn of the mask's eyes.

Sometimes, death is a good thing. _Sometimes_. Better to give the demon a target that the world might actually be better off without than to let him go after whoever he runs across. He doesn't understand the desperation that drives half of his targets into doing what they do, and they don't deserve his attention just for trying to survive. The people I point him towards don't deserve it either — _no one_ deserves to die — but it's better than him going through a dozen incidental targets before he hits the person he's gunning for. It gives them another chance.

I do what I have to.

"I'll handle it." He heads for my front door, and past the crawling of my skin I swallow and force myself to speak.

"Just ask; don't hurt them. They're just kids." He doesn't acknowledge me, slipping out my front door with the heavy clunk of metal-reinforced boots and the swirl of the black cape, and my throat tightens a bit as I try and breathe.

It's what I _have_ to do, but that doesn't make being around Batman any easier. He killed me, and that gave me my second chance at life and I am _grateful_ for that, but everything about what he does sickens me. Being around him makes me remember the feeling of a bullet in my chest, and the slow crawl of dying to a punctured lung as the rest of the gang war raged on around me. I don't _blame_ him for killing me — I'd done terrible things, and I had to be stopped — but the memories are still there and I can't just forget them.

I've seen enough death for a few lifetimes, at least this focuses it on the people who've actually killed, and not just whoever happens to be in the Batman's way. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, right? I can handle getting condemned if it means a few more kids get out of the lower ranks of the gangs instead of being killed.

I was going to hell anyway, what's a few more souls and sins to add to my total?


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome back! So I've only written these first two chapters of this story, but I wanted to get it out here. So this one is from Dick's PoV; hope you enjoy!

No **warnings** for this!

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I don't think I'm ever going to get used to Gotham's architecture. Sure, I vaguely remember it from when I was a kid, but it certainly never got familiar. I ran around a lot of cities as a kid, but my parents always made sure that I never strayed out of sight while we were in Gotham. Even for our kind of carefree way, Gotham was never a welcoming place to strangers. It's kind of weird to be back, honestly. I haven't come back to Gotham since my parents died here, though I was always aware of it on the corner of my perception, like some kind of unresolved itch.

I've spent a lot of time all over the place since then — first with the circus, then with whatever family would take me for a few months — but Bludhaven is where I ended up settling once I was old enough to decide for myself. The job as a cop came easy — I aced pretty much every physical exam they put me through; perks of being a child acrobat — and it eased a thirst in me I'd only ever dimly recognized. Helping people, helping _anyone_ , calms me down. It's not as simple as that I'm always high strung, but just that doing good, and serving _justice_ , gives me a warm feeling in my chest that I don't know how to replicate any other way. It was an easy thing to get used to, and an even easier thing to get addicted to.

I'll fully admit that I can be a bit of a workaholic because of that. Not that it matters; there's no one else making demands on my time. The circus has moved on, they don't come to Gotham anymore, and I'm not close enough with anyone else that my work would get in the way. None of the foster families ever kept me long enough for that.

Too much energy, too 'dangerous' to be around other kids — I taught them handstands, but apparently that qualified as dangerous — and then when I got older, too _gay_. It never seemed to matter to any of them that I wasn't actually gay, just bisexual. I still looked the wrong direction sometimes, and that was enough. I don't blame them, it couldn't have been easy to try and accept a child who was as likely to do cartwheels off the furniture as sit on it.

That wasn't something I could give up though. Not ever. Acrobatics is the last tie I have to remember my family by, the last thing I can point to and say with total confidence that they'd be _proud_ of. I'm not giving that up.

I'm not sure why I'm taking the priest's offer. Todd, and that _has_ to be a last name. His invitation was just a casual offer, and it's not like it actually meant anything. He might be young — he can't be more than twenty-five — but he's still a priest. Introduced himself as ' _Father_ Todd' and everything. He must make that offer a dozen times a day or more; isn't that a requirement for any kind of religious job? Converting people to the religion probably comes up pretty high on the list of jobs he has.

But he did say that it wasn't about spirituality; he said it was just a safe haven. That doesn't sound like any conversion I've heard of. So maybe that's why I'm giving it a chance.

Or maybe it's because I don't really know anyone in Gotham.

There are the other cops, but mostly they either ignore or mock me. None seem real interested in being friends and honestly, I don't think I want to be friends with any of them either. I knew Gotham was corrupt, I knew its police officers were corrupt, but I didn't think it was this _bad_. I can't even count how many bribes I've seen change hands since I got here, and it's barely been a week. Bludhaven is corrupt as hell too, but it's not this bad. At least there I knew there were a few others who I could count on to have my back if I ever brought anything real bad up.

Here, I think trying to blow the whistle on anything at all, even something truly _awful_ , might just get me dragged to the back of an alley and beaten. I don't know enough to risk it, not yet.

So here I am.

I push out a slow breath, resist the urge to tug down on my plain black t-shirt, and cross the street to the church. One of its massive doors is propped open, as promised, and I slip into the gap. It smells like wax, like dust, but it doesn't have the musty, abandoned smell of the places that haven't been maintained. The inside certainly doesn't shine, and it's easy to see the wear and tear on everything in here, but it's a long ways from looking dirty. There are stained glass windows high on the wall, dull colors that are probably much more impressive with the sun shining through them. I can't quite make out the scenes depicted in them; the lighting is too dim and the arched ceiling is too high. There are a few lamps scattered around, mismatched and with long cords trailing off to who knows where, but most of the lighting comes from dozens of lit candles.

The hush is the most obvious part. There are people scattered through the long rows of pews, and there are murmurs of conversation, but none of it rises above a whisper. It feels a bit like a library.

I notice the priest approaching me from my right only about a second before he speaks, his smile soft and his looks much more in line with what I expected from a priest to begin with. Older, about my height, with slightly-balding short white hair. "You're new here," he points out. His voice is quiet, and he stops early to still give me a fair amount of space. That's probably something to do with the kind of people they get in here; don't crowd people who might not be comfortable with it.

"Yeah," I answer, and take the initiative to step towards him and close a bit of the distance. "I'm looking for Father Todd, is he around?"

I swear I don't imagine the flicker of disapproval in the curl of one corner of his mouth, but then it's gone just as quickly. "Outside," is his answer. He turns, raising an arm to point down the length of the church. "All the way down, the first door on the right." I nod in thanks, start to walk past him, and he reaches out and touches my shoulder. "You should reconsider your lifestyle, young man," he says sternly, and before I can puzzle out what he's talking about he's moving around me and off to some other person.

I watch him for a second — my 'lifestyle'? What does that mean? — and then give it up and put the strange words out of my mind. I head down the center of the rows, keeping my footsteps as quiet as I can on the stone floor. Mostly, it works. At least I don't get any strange looks aimed my way by anyone else in the church. I push open the door he indicated, and step through it.

It's a medium sized garden, with arched stone supports lining a covered walkway around it, and a fairly large stone wall circling the half that isn't blocked by the church itself. Scalable by just about anyone — I can see the pockmarks in the stone from here — but it's the thought that counts I suppose. Especially here. The moon tonight is bright enough that it's illuminated, which is good since it doesn't look like there's any other light source.

There's a single person sitting near the center of the garden, on one of the five or six scattered stone benches. His back is to me, but I can recognize the priest uniform, and I recognize the streak of white hair over the left side of his forehead. Todd.

I rap my knuckles against one of the stone arches, and he twists at the sound. There's just enough light for me to catch the shade of his blue-green eyes, and then his mouth curls into a small smile. If it feels like it has a bit of a sharp edge, that has to just be my imagination. I move forward as he shifts to the side, making room for me on the bench. My gaze drops to his other hand as I circle the bench, to the carton of cheap cigarettes.

"I didn't think priests smoked," I comment with a small grin, as I settle onto the bench.

He makes a small, amused sound. His teeth show for just a second in the same small grin as mine, and then he raises that carton. "Do you mind?" I shake my head. It's a practiced flick of his hand that flips the lid of the carton open, and he tugs one out with his free hand. "I do a lot of things priests probably shouldn't," he admits, as he flips the carton shut again and sets it down beside his hip, on the other side from me. The click of the lighter he picks up is soft; all of his movements feel like he's on automatic. "Old habit from before I came here; never kicked it."

"They let you get away with that?" I ask, as he raises the lit cigarette and draws in a breath through it. His eyes flick shut for a moment, and he's impossibly still for that second before letting the smoke out again.

"They pretty much gave up on stopping me from doing what I wanted." He flashes me a thin smile. "I'm a priest by circumstance, not because it was my goal in life. You?"

"Why am I a priest?" I tease, and he snorts. Then he leans far enough over to shove my shoulder with his, and the strength behind it almost startles me. Not that I thought that he was weaker, because he's way too tall and sturdily built for that, but I didn't expect the feeling of hard muscle in the relatively gentle shove.

"A cop," he clarifies. "And why _here?_ Hate to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure you're the only person to ever _ask_ to get transferred to Gotham. Usually they save that for pretty serious fuckups."

"Gee, thanks." He shrugs, and I watch him take another drag off of the cigarette. "I kind of fell into being a cop. I like helping people, and I've got the skills for it. Why Gotham…?" I tilt my head back, searching the black sky for stars I can't possibly see.

"You can stop there if you want to," Todd says quietly. "Gotham chews people up and swallows them still alive. The lucky ones she spits back out past her borders, but most people who've been in Gotham have a hard time ever really leaving it behind." He gives a soft snort. "I've heard a thousand stories, you don't have to tell me yours if you don't want to."

I look over at him, watching him flick the cigarette to get rid of the excess ash. "My parents were killed here," I confess, and his gaze flicks to mine.

"Sorry for your loss," is the answer that comes out of his mouth, paired with a small tilt of his head.

"It's been a long time."

"Doesn't always make it easier." He holds my gaze for another moment, and then gives a crooked smirk. "I can pray for them if you want."

"You're kind of an ass," I comment, "you know that?" But my tone is light, easy, and I'm really not offended. He knows I'm not big on religion, and the smirk clearly makes it a teasing offer, not a genuine one. Though if I asked him to, he probably would. He raises his shoulders in a shrug, still smirking even as he looks back down at the cigarette. Curiosity strikes, and I ask, "What's your story?"

He gives a huff of breath that sounds amused. "You want the palatable version, or the uncensored one?"

"Uncensored," I answer instantly, and he takes a drag of the cigarette.

He waits until he's blown all the smoke back out before glancing over at me and tilting his head. "Fair enough. Alright, well, starts out not so different from a lot of other people here. Father in prison, mother overdosed, and no other family, so I was out on the streets. Got in with the wrong people, ended up in a gang run by a man called Brother Blood." Todd flicks the cigarette again, and just stays watching it for a moment before he continues. "Developing drug lord; he liked how I worked so I ended up pretty high in the chain. Batman tracked him down eventually, started a gang war in the wake of all the killing. I ended up with a bullet in my chest."

Batman. God, there's a figure I never needed to think about again. He was a nightmare even when I was a kid; _he_ was the thing that my parents used to keep me where they could see me while we were in Gotham. It doesn't seem like he's gotten any less terrifying since then, and the city sure as hell hasn't gotten any better under his watch. Not that I've seen, anyway.

"So it changed your life?" is my next question.

Todd gives a sharp laugh, and shoots me a grin that's more teasing than actually amused. "Yes and no. I died. The bullet punctured one of my lungs, and no one was going to help one random gang member lying halfway down an alley."

I blink, stare at him for a second, and then blurt out, "You're fucking with me."

He laughs again, but he's also shaking his head. "No, I'm not. I died in that alley, and I woke up two months later in storage at a morgue." He shrugs as I stare some more, and lifts the cigarette. "You asked for the uncensored version; that's it. It's hard not to believe in a higher power when you come back from the dead; miracle resurrections aren't exactly a common thing, even in Gotham."

I can't stop staring. Even as he presses the cigarette to his lips and draws a breath through it. "That _can't_ be true."

"Welcome to Gotham," he says with a smile, smoke coming out with the words. "I'd show you the scar, but it's a little hard to get out of these robes in a decent amount of time. Luckily they hadn't gotten to the backlog I was stored at, so I was never actually declared dead by the court. A couple of the priests found me collapsed nearby, and I've been here ever since." He gives another shrug at my look, and aims his smile towards me for a moment. "Hey, you asked."

"Fair point," I manage. I have to shake my head to get the shock away from my mind, away from the idea that there's a _miracle_ sitting next to me. "So, what? It made you religious?"

He makes a noncommittal noise. "I believe that there's _something_ ," he finally admits. "There's no other explanation for why I'm alive. But what that something is?" Another tap of the cigarette, another flick of ash to the stone beneath the bench. "I think the idea of a benevolent, all-seeing, 'God' is comforting to a lot of people. I know there must be some force in the universe out there somewhere, or I'd be in a grave. So if people want to believe in someone they can pray to, who am I to stop them? I might not agree with the text of a lot of religions, but I can believe in the messages behind them."

"And what are those?" I ask.

His smile softens a touch, and he gives another shrug as he looks over at me. "Love. Accept. Help when you can. Be the best version of yourself that's possible. Live for _life_ , and not for the individual pieces of it." He takes a long slow breath through the cigarette, as I watch him. It feels a bit like balancing on a high wire, right down to the familiar pleasure that always lit in my chest. It's just waiting for the next cue, or the next roar of excitement from the crowd. I'm used to that kind of waiting. "I preach religion to the people that need it, I tell them that they'll be forgiven, that they're loved. I don't push it on the ones who don't. If all they need is someone to listen, then that's all I give." Another smile, this one smaller and more gentle. "I was given a second chance, so I'm going to pass it on to as many people as I can. Everyone deserves that same chance."

I raise my gaze for a moment, back up to the sky. "I can get behind that," I answer. The smile he gives is warm, and the one I aim back at him is an echo of it. I extend my right hand, and turn halfway towards him on the bench. "I'm Dick."

To his credit, his mouth only twitches up a little bit at my name. Then he turns towards me, and takes my hand with his free one to shake it. "Jason," he answers. "Nice to meet you."

Our hands part, and I find myself instantly missing the warm touch of his skin to mine.

I trained myself out of needing physical touch a long time ago. In the circus touch was constant. A touch to my shoulders, my back, a ruffle of my hair, or a peck of lips to the forehead. I was _constantly_ being touched, lifted, swung. My whole life revolved around the idea that even in free fall, even while I was flying through the air without a thing to support me, there was always someone there to catch me. There was always someone ready to grip my arms, or my legs, and complete the movement for me. Touch was safety, life, and love.

Until I was on my own.

It _hurt_ , but I realized that no one else was going to touch me in the same way that my parents had. So I fought that part of me down and learned to accept it. I learned to accept that in normal families contact was reserved for praise, and my families were far below normal. Touch was rare except in anger. It was a jarring change, but I managed. It does mean that moments like these, where someone I actually like takes the time to touch me, it's hard for me to let go. Lucky for me that people I like and trust don't come along too often, or it would be harder.

"Can I call you Jason," I ask, "or do you want me to call you Todd? Father Todd?"

He smirks, and tilts his head a bit towards me. "Jason is fine. You're not religious, and we've covered that I'm not really the best example of a priest. You're alright with me calling you Dick?"

"That's fine," I answer instantly. "Been a long time, I've gotten over the jokes. It's—" A sharp scream splits the air, and I jerk around. It was muffled, it came from the direction of the church, and it sounded _terrified_. "What the hell?"

Jason is already moving, the rest of the cigarette crushed beneath his heel as he whirls around and heads for the door back into the church. He's moving fast, and after a startled moment I click into action and follow him. There's a set to his shoulders, an expression in the glimpses of his face that I catch, that makes me think that this isn't the same shock to him that it was to me. He looks determined, but not startled, and there's an edge of anger to his eyes that brings into sharp relief the fact that he's tall, broad shouldered, and obviously stronger than is obvious at a first glance. My every instinct says he shouldn't be messed with, not right now.

He pushes through the door and into the church, and I'm at his heels. I drop back as his pace increases a touch, and my gaze flicks around the church. The people I remember being there still are, scattered through the pews, but they're all partially hunched down and turned towards the front of the building. Staring at something. My gaze gets there last, and my fists clench before I can even think about it.

I know the cop standing there, his nightstick out and held threateningly halfway into the air. I don't know the woman cowering in front of him, but I don't need to. I know the cop for a bully, a womanizer, a lying _bastard_ who laughs in people's faces when they want help. The woman's afraid of him, and that tells me all the rest I need to know.

I almost reach for a weapon before I remember I'm not in uniform, and the closest thing I have to a weapon is the badge tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. Going up against that cop is just an invitation for a beating; no one would question it. Which makes me wonder why Jason is striding down the center of the pews like he's planning to bulldoze this guy over with just his weight. It also makes me speed up a bit to try and reach him before he gets there.

The cop raises that nightstick a little higher, the woman raises an arm as if to defend herself, and Jason shouts, " _Enough!_ " down the length of the church. The cop flinches, his head snapping up. Jason pushes forward, easily taking the woman and guiding her behind him without ever taking his gaze off the cop. For the life of me, I can't remember his name right now.

"This isn't your business, Todd," he snaps, and I can see Jason's shoulders curl a little bit.

"You brought it into my church," he answers, voice low and rumbling with threat. "That makes it my business. Leave."

His fingers clench hard enough around the nightstick that his knuckles turn white, and the cop's mouth curls in a sneer. He's smaller than Jason is, but I know he's more or less all muscle, and unless Jason has some kind of hidden martial arts training I know the cop is better trained. "She—"

Jason's voice lowers a little further. "I don't _care_. This is a _sanctuary_ ; violence is _not_ allowed against the people who come here for protection. So you can leave, or I can throw you out that door, but you _won't_ be hurting her."

The cop puffs up. "Todd, you're interfering with official—"

"You keep your badge _out_ of this church," Jason snarls. "Those are the rules. _You_ know that, officer. The whole GCPD knows that. _Leave_."

For a second I think he's about to take a swing at Jason, but then the cop shoves the nightstick away and steps back. Then his gaze flicks around the church, like he's looking for someone to back him up, and his gaze settles on me. " _Grayson?_ " he hisses, eyes widening and then snapping to Jason for a moment. "I should have known you'd be here with this _fag_ , Grayson." Jason twitches, the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist. "We all knew you had a stick up your ass, but letting a _priest_ put it there? You're a special kind of fucked up."

"Get _out_ ," Jason snaps, taking a step forward.

The cop backs off another step as I watch, resisting the urge to mimic Jason and curl my own hands into tight fists. "You'll regret this, Todd." He turns and heads for the exit, shoving through the partially open door and vanishing from sight. Only then does Jason ease down out of the tense, ready to fight posture.

He slowly turns, and his gaze lingers on me for a brief second — am I imagining the wariness there? — before focusing on the woman. Just in time for her to launch herself at him and wrap her arms around his chest. He looks just a little surprised, but that almost instantly disappears as he lowers his arms and gently wraps them around her. She's trembling, but the muffled words she's saying against his chest sound like a variety of thank yous. He closes his eyes for a moment, head dipping down towards her.

"It's alright," he murmurs. "Come on, come sit down." He gently herds her over towards the pews, and shoots me glance that I read as a request to leave both of them alone for now. I'm happy to.

I cross the room, over to the front doors, and take a glance outside. The cop is just getting into his car, and I wince when the sirens click on and he peels down the street. Oh, that's going to suck later. I'd mostly been able to avoid anyone figuring out that I swung both ways, but that's blown now. Now I'm not just the new guy, or the rookie, I'm the _gay_ one on top of it. Great. Another reason for them to make me the focus of their attention, that's just what I needed.

I take a glance over at Jason, who has his arm around the woman's shoulders and his head ducked down. His mouth is moving, but whatever he's saying is soft enough that I can't even catch the murmur of conversation. Not even with the echoing effect that this church's architecture brings into play.

Is he really gay?

He didn't contradict it, and he did give that miniscule twitch when the slur came out of the cop's mouth. That _would_ make sense of what the other priest said to me when I asked him to point me towards Jason. Religion doesn't tend to get along with homosexuality, and if the priests know that Jason is gay then it stands to reason that at least some of them wouldn't approve of it. Even more so if he's actually sexually active as well; I think that's a big no-no for priests, at least outside of marriage. It would explain the distaste that the older priest looked at me with, the cop's slur, and the way he more or less ignored it. Might also explain why he said he believes in the principles behind religion, but not the text itself. It's hard to get along with a religion that condemns what you are.

I stay at the door, half keeping watch out the door just in case, until Jason rises from the pew and leaves the woman alone. It looks like she's calmed down some, and she's got her hands firmly clasped together in prayer. Jason takes a look around the church, like he's making sure that no one else needs him, before crossing over to me.

I slip a little further into the church to meet him, and tilt my head towards the woman. "She alright?" I ask softly.

"Should be," he answers, with another glance back towards her. "It'll take some time, but as long as she needs somewhere safe she can stay here." His gaze returns to me, and he gives a crooked smile that looks a little guilty. "Sorry, by the way. For whatever that group decides to do to you for being around me. If it gets physical—"

"I'll handle it," I say easily. "Had to happen eventually; I wasn't going to be able to keep that under wraps forever. At least now I know that it's coming."

He looks just a little startled, and he glances me up and down. "You're actually gay?" he asks, voice holding that same edge of surprise.

"Bisexual," I correct, with a shrug. "Always have been. You take a whole precinct full of detectives, and one guy hiding his sexuality, it's not going to last. Especially not when that's the new guy. Same thing happened to me in Bludhaven; dealt with it there and I'll deal with it here. What about you? That just a slur, or was there some truth to it?"

He echoes my shrug. "Some. I lean towards guys, most of the time."

"Thought priests weren't supposed to have sex."

His small smile curls into a grin. "Thought we covered I do a lot of things priests shouldn't. I smoke, I drink, I fuck." I twitch in surprise, and he gives a quiet laugh. "And I curse. I keep myself toned down for general audiences, but I don't hide who I am." He considers me for a second, and then tilts his head to one side. "Maybe we can go out for a drink sometime, and you can see for yourself?"

A part of me shuts down, and I can feel my expression freeze in place. "Is that how it is?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet. "Find out I sleep with guys and _bam_ , better start the chase? Being bisexual doesn't mean I'm available, or _interested_." I take a step back, starting to turn towards the door to leave, and Jason follows me.

"Dick," his voice is soft, calm, "it wasn't anything more than a drink. Promise." I pause, watching him and waiting for a reason I should stick around.

I promised myself that I would never get used again. Not after the disaster of my first time. It's been continually ground into me that I'm good looking, and that makes me a target, but it doesn't make me anything more than that. Sleeping with me is something to brag about, but actually staying would mean a commitment no one seems willing to make. I've _tried_.

Maybe I put too much importance on the act itself, maybe it really is just something to relieve stress and have fun with another person, but it never feels like that. It feels intimate, I always _care_ , and I don't know how to handle the fact that apparently no one else thinks of it that way. No one else seems to believe that sex is anything more than fucking; love doesn't seem to have anything to do with it. Except to me.

"If you're not interested, consider it closed," Jason murmurs. "It was just an invitation." He pulls in a deep breath, and then lets it out slowly and with a small smile that looks a tinge sad. "Most people have trouble seeing me as anything but a priest. Taking the possibility of sex off the table doesn't matter to me, I'd still enjoy having a drink with a handsome man who happens to be one of the only honest cops in Gotham. Even if it's nothing more than conversation and someone I don't have to watch my tongue around."

I watch him, trying to find any kind of deception in his eyes, and he gives another soft smile. "So? Interested in a drink, Dick?"

"I—" I swallow whatever was on the tip of my tongue, and then give a small nod. "I could use a friend in Gotham," I admit. "Sorry about that. I— Bad experiences." I force myself to relax, and to give a small smile. I'm pretty sure it looks grim more than anything else. "Good looking and bisexual; it's like throwing blood in with the sharks, you know?"

"I know," Jason answers, his voice still quiet. "I remember what that was like. You'll probably need a drink or two after tomorrow. I can ask for the night off, or come in late. That sound good?"

I manage another nod. "Yeah, that's good. Got somewhere in mind to meet?"

"Yeah, I know a few bars with decent people. You work morning shift, right? Meet you outside the precinct at about five fifteen?" I don't know how he knows how our shifts work, but honestly I'm not going to question it. "I haven't got a car, but—"

"I do," I break in. "And that's right. Five fifteen; I'll see you then, Jason."

"You've got it," he says, with a smile that looks a lot more real. "See you tomorrow, Dick."


End file.
